The Other One
by somanyhands
Summary: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes stories make no reference to a third Holmes brother but Gatiss's character said at the end of final the episode His Last Vow "I'm not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one."


Mycroft stood, watching the figure move behind the thick frosted glass of the bathroom door before drifting slowly through the lounge and into the kitchen. A slender arm reached up, retrieving a mug from a shelf and placing it uncertainly on the counter. The kettle flicked on, and Mycroft watched the figure move back into the lounge again.

A knock on the door signalled Anthea's entry, and Mycroft swiftly, quite probably TOO swiftly, closed the lid of his laptop.

"Sir."

Of course, Mycroft knew Anthea had noticed, yet she always maintained the pretence that she hadn't. That's why she had become invaluable to Mycroft over the years.

"The Prime Minister is running late, and your meeting has been put back to 2pm. Should I fetch lunch?"

"Please, Anthea." Mycroft nodded, and as she exited the office, Mycroft tentatively lifted the laptop lid again to see the figure slowly walking back from the kitchen with a hot cup of tea, placing it down carefully on the side table and lifting a newspaper from the arm of the chair.

As the figure sat down and lay the newspaper on their lap, Mycroft briefly switched camera view. Headlines revealed that the paper was several days old, but they wouldn't know that. The controlled environment made it difficult to keep track of time, and this enabled Mycroft to monitor what outside influences were allowed inside. A careful selection of newspapers containing unimportant news, some periodicals, limited television coverage. To begin with, it had been difficult and had caused tension, with Mycroft disallowing more that he could allow, but, as time went on, it became possible to allow more regular newspapers, which had helped to calm things slightly.

The figure flicked through the news pages, barely pausing to read headlines, never mind articles. It had become routine. The habitual making of tea and flicking through the paper without reading. It was mindless, almost just for show, and Mycroft wondered whether the ability to read had been lost altogether, or whether it was just the will to bother that had gone.

He watched the figure close and fold the newspaper, placing it alongside the mug of tea on the table. Tea which would, as it did every day, eventually grow cold, sitting in its place until whoever came in that evening cleared up. He flicked the camera selection back to one which gave him a clearer view of the figure's face. A face which, over a relatively short period of time, had aged twenty, or maybe thirty years.

Mycroft scrubbed his face over his hands, a familiar guilt stabbing at his chest.  
How long had it been now. Two years? Three? Longer?  
He knew he should know.  
It should be imprinted in his memory in indelible ink, like a mind tattoo, a reminder of the terrible thing that he had done.

He looked up at the screen to find his subject staring back, and he could swear that sometimes it was he who was being watched.  
Those intense eyes boring in to him. Familiar eyes reflecting his own self-loathing and disgust.

They held the one-sided eye contact for what felt like forever, Mycroft's powers of deduction reading everything that had to be said in that cold, hard stare.

It always came down to one question though: Why?

Mycroft often had to remind himself of the answer.  
Sometimes, when Anthea found him watching and he didn't hide it away, she would nod understandingly. She knew, of course, and even she would occasionally take a moment to reassure her boss that it had been necessary.

The eyes on the screen dropped, releasing Mycroft from their spell, and he found himself letting out a long breath he didn't realise he had been holding.

It had been the right thing to do, he reassured himself again.

The figure slouched back into the chair, letting eyes drift closed and, in short minutes, the slow rise and fall of the chest indicated that sleep had come quickly.

It gnawed at him inside to see the suffering each day, but he felt compelled to keep watch.  
It was his responsibility.

He once told somebody that he wasn't given to outbursts of brotherly compassion, but he knew that to be a lie.

He had needed to keep them safe.  
Safe from the world, and safe from themselves.

What he had done, he had done out of love.  
Brotherly love and, yes, compassion.

And as Mycroft took one last look at the screen before closing the laptop lid again, he whispered quietly.

"Until next time, little sister."


End file.
